


feeling i can't put down (shiver that i can't shake)

by pinkcords



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Harry, Author Louis, M/M, Photographer Harry, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcords/pseuds/pinkcords
Summary: Louis sits at his desk now, reclined in his chair with a knee pulled to his chest. His journal sits open against his thigh as he stares outside and watches the dogwoods sway in the wind, lost in thought about this life he’s fallen into and never imagined for himself even a year ago. Harry pulls him from his daydream when he leans over his shoulder to kiss his jaw, handing off a mug of steaming tea, made just the way Louis likes. It’s so thoughtful and kind, but Louis knows Harry doesn’t think about these things, just does. He does them because he loves Louis, loves him despite his shit everywhere that makes their (their) flat messier than Harry would like, despite Louis’ odd hours he keeps now that he’s onto his next novel.Louis takes a careful sip of his tea, the steam rising to his face, and writes.your heart has always been my homeOr, Louis spends a lifetime trying to find the words to describe how Harry makes him feel.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 74
Kudos: 147
Collections: Walls Fic Fest





	feeling i can't put down (shiver that i can't shake)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by _Habit_. This one was a struggle to finish, but I'm pleased with how it's turned out despite my awful writer's block and hope you enjoy it. A very special thanks to my britpicker who whipped this into shape!

The first time Louis sees Harry, it’s on a crowded train platform at Hammersmith Station at 7:03am. He’s due early for a meeting with his publisher, the sleep still evident on his face in the way his lids droop, everything in his sight toeing the line between dream and reality. A curl of fog invades the platform, turning everything in its path ethereal and soft at the edges as early morning light filters through and aids in its quest. Each figure stands in wait, casting a silhouette of themselves against the pavement. Harry, for his part, is on his phone, and Louis can just make out the crinkle of concentration between his brows, lost in thought about whatever he’s tapping across the screen. In fact, most of their companions on the platform are similarly engaged. 

Louis is not one of those people that likes to furiously comment on the state of humanity and its attachment to modern technology and media, but this morning, as he pockets his iPhone and unapologetically stares, he finds it criminal that he could have missed such a sight. He’s not sure if he’s talking about the overall atmosphere of catching an early train on a crisp spring morning or Harry himself, but nonetheless, he finds himself grateful he’s the only person on the platform looking up rather than down. That he’s aware of his surroundings and taking note of the beauty right in front of him. 

Harry is tall. He throws a longer, more elegant shadow than most of the crowd on the platform, Louis included. The suit he’s dressed in is a bit over the top for the average businessman, a deep blue velvet that catches the sunlight on each of its creases and seemingly glows from within. More unusual still is the small leather handbag he holds in his left hand, emblazoned with some sort of luxury branding. He’s quite certain any of the other men on the platform would scoff at such a thing, but Louis likes it, likes that Harry is bold enough to express himself as he pleases, seemingly oblivious to any opinion but his own. It makes Louis wonder what he does for a profession, the velvet suit at odds with the unruly curls atop his head. He wonders where he’s going now at this hour, if he’s a creative (his guess, based upon how he stands out among the crowd), those of whom usually keep odd hours from the nine to five and might not reach for such an extravagant outfit so early in the day.

But then the train pulls up, announcing the station and warning of the gap. Everyone’s attention snaps forward, rushing to the doors to beat their neighbour, and Harry’s lost in the throng. There’s a brief flash of cobalt several carriages down that Louis spots, but he’s swept up in the surge of people boarding the train, like a school of fish, and finds himself pressed to a pole rather unpleasantly in the next second. As the train releases its brakes and begins its journey to the next stop, Louis closes his eyes, tries to absorb every detail from the moment prior, what passed as seconds, but felt like minutes, hours. He wonders to himself if he’ll be able to replicate what he just saw with his own eyes, what he felt as he watched, onto a page.

It’s not until he’s home later that afternoon, in the comfort of his flat and sitting at the small office space he’s carved out in front of the windows, that he thinks of Harry. Instead of opening up the draft he’s currently agonising over, he reaches for the tattered journal he takes with him when he’s in search of inspiration and sometimes endlessly scrawls in when his anxiety peaks with a deadline breathing down his neck. It’s not his usual material, but he can’t get Harry out of his head, the trim waist and broad shoulders and hair that curled at the base of his neck, all cut in a shade of blue that seemed to accentuate the sky above. Of all that could have caught his eye, he’d spotted Harry, drawing his gaze like a moth to a flame. He feels something akin to fate settle like a blanket over that fleeting moment and writes.

_ what’s it like to have my attention, even now all these hours later? _

x

Louis writes novels. Often set in the dark and shrouded in mystery, he crafts stories of unsolved murders and disappearances, the detectives who scour for clues and chase the things that go bump in the night. He’s found some moderate success since he graduated from uni with his English degree in hand, enough to keep the lights on and his fridge mostly full. In fact, he’d managed to buy a new Macbook just last month when his old tried and true laptop had sputtered its last breath and flashed one final blue screen. 

The sun is just going down, his flat dim enough that he should probably flip his lamp on to avoid eye strain, when his phone lights up with a text from Zayn, urging him to wrap up his “horror shit” and join himself and Liam at the pub. Like Louis, Zayn works for himself, living inside his studio instead of a flat and using that as his excuse to shower at either Liam’s or Louis’ a few times a week. He also knows the importance of getting away from work, no matter how passionate they both are, lest they be caught working around the clock and burning themselves out. This text is a call to do just that. 

Louis looks from his phone back to his laptop. He’s two pages off his goal for the day, but he can feel the sharp edges of a headache starting behind his eyes that he knows will only intensify should he press on and keep writing. If he’s entirely honest with himself, a pint with his mates sounds a lot better than finishing up the scene he’s currently writing. The Steeles can wait to find out about their daughter’s demise until tomorrow, surely. 

It’s still quite cold in London for the end of March and Louis is hit with a wall of wind as soon as he steps outside. He draws his denim jacket around him tighter, the sheepskin soft to his jawline, and drives forward despite the tiny voice in the back of his head suggesting his bed might be the better choice. That counsel is only more appealing when he steps through the pub’s doors and realises it’s karaoke night. Though it might not be great for his headache, he’s grateful for his company tonight, those who will never urge him to take the stage against his will. Those nights are reserved for copious amounts of alcohol rather than a beer or two.

Zayn and Liam have already locked down the corner of the bar, so Louis shuffles sideways between groups of people in conversation to join them. Zayn appears to have been in the middle of a piece when he left, still covered in paint with streaks of it in his hair, while Liam looks his exact opposite, dressed in a grey suit and his tie loose. 

“Lads.” Louis announces his presence, clapping both of them on the shoulder with either hand. He catches the eye of the bartender for his usual order and takes a seat, heaving a sigh like it’s the first time he’s sat down all day when he knows he’s been sitting on his arse for hours. 

“Didn’t think you were gonna show,” Zayn says, holding up his phone with a wiggle. “Never answered.”

Louis thanks the bartender when his pint arrives and takes a long swallow. “Like to keep you guessing. Alright, Liam?”

“Alright, yeah. Got to leave on time tonight!” Liam holds his glass up for a cheers and Louis obliges easily. 

“When are you gonna give up your stuffy office job and stop showering like Zayn?” Louis asks. 

Zayn throws him a long, suffering look before he rolls his eyes beneath his lashes. “And yet you constantly complain that I use all your hot water.”

“And use all my towels,” Liam supplies helpfully. 

This time it’s Louis who holds his glass out. “Cheers to that, mate.”

He’s just finished off his first pint when there’s a sudden increase in volume coming from the makeshift corner stage. Loads of people have started to clap, whistle their encouragement, as a bloke makes his way up. His hair is wrapped up in some sort of patterned scarf and he’s got on a slouchy jumper that’s a size or two too big, but does nothing to hide the width of his shoulders. Louis squints in his direction as he takes a sip of his second pint, trying to place his features that fizz in the back of his brain with recognition. Just when he feels a thread of familiarity cross his mind, he’s distracted by the lad’s dimples as he smiles to the crowd he’s gathered, adoring pub fans. 

He sings  _ The Chain _ . It’s not the first song that comes to Louis when searching his karaoke repertoire, more of a Madonna man himself if properly intoxicated and daring enough to take the stage, but he has to hand it to this mystery fellow who owns the song with confidence and a voice that makes Louis lower his pint glass to the bar. Unexpected is an understatement, though Louis would have never anticipated such a performance to come out of anyone who frequents this pub. His eyes don’t stray, becoming one of his many admirers he’s attracted. It’s that feeling, that magnetic pull from the top of his head to the pit of his stomach, that causes his sudden recognition.

“He had on a blue suit,” he says out loud. 

Liam and Zayn turn to look at him in tandem, puzzled. “Who did?” Liam asks.

Louis picks up his pint again and gestures towards the stage. “He did.”

“You know him?” Zayn asks, eyebrows raised. “You know people besides us?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes, Zayn. I happen to know a lot of people. But no, I don’t know him.”

He takes a sip of his beer to hide the dig at his social life. Truth be told, being a novelist doesn’t allow for much interaction with his fellow peers. He spends his days in front of his windows or at the coffee shop on the corner, trying to push creativity and plot through his fingertips. It’s not that he doesn’t like being around people. He loves it, actually, loves his natural ability to make strangers laugh and to absorb their attention. It’s just that the winters are long and his deadlines are tight and yeah, maybe it’s been a few months since he’s made any real effort to see anyone else but Zayn and Liam. Usually at their invitation.

“But he had on a blue suit?” Liam asks, his eyebrows still furrowed with confusion as he tries to make sense of Louis’ earlier statement.

Louis rolls his eyes again. “I saw him on the tube the other day. Well, while I was waiting for the tube.”

“He’s fit,” Zayn supplies.

Louis hums his assent. He’s not about to deny what is based in scientific fact. The man is certifiably, undoubtedly, smoking hot, even with the dumb scarf in his hair. 

“Go and talk to him,” Zayn urges when Harry leaves the stage with a humble wave to those cheering and weaves his way to the other end of the bar.

Louis reels back, shaking his head. “What? No. I’m not looking right now.”

“You’re always looking. You just talk yourself out of it because you’d rather live up to the lonely writer stereotypes you’ve built up in your head,” Zayn points out.

Louis glares at him. And he knows what’s happening. He knows he’s going to walk over there and make a fool of himself in front of this guy just to prove Zayn wrong.

“You’re a right prick, you know that,” he says as he slides off his stool and downs the rest of his pint in one gulp.

Zayn just grins conspiratorially with Liam. Louis hates them both.

Even if Louis had planned a smooth introduction, he’s met with a wall of people congregated around the karaoke star when he gets to the other end of the bar. He has to shoulder his way through as politely as possible, making out like it’s just to order another drink and not to threaten anyone’s proximity to this lad. Louis forgot where he agreed to attend some rockstar’s show and not just grab a few with his mates to unwind. 

By the time he reaches the other end, he has to lean his forearms on the bar to be heard by the bartender. He orders himself another pint and a second of whatever the bloke with the headscarf has been having all night.

“You can tell him it’s from me,” Louis tells the bartender. It’s less a suggestion and more of a polite demand.

He takes a sip of his beer and studies the bottles of spirits on the back wall, lost in his own head and trying to keep himself distracted. Either this guy will take his drink and run the opposite direction or… what?

Louis finds out a second later when he casually looks in the lad’s direction and sees him smiling back, a smirk beginning to touch the corners of his lips. One of the hanging lights is right above his head and Louis can see his eyes, green and warm and a bit tipsy, closer here than he was that day on the platform. Louis lifts his pint glass in a cheers and takes another mouthful, casting his eyes back down to the coaster. He fucks around on his phone for a moment, answering Zayn’s text that points out buying an anonymous drink does not qualify as speaking to him.

Somewhere along the line, headscarf manages to escape his fans and ends up beside Louis, one hip cocked into the bar and still holding the mixed drink that he’d bought him. 

“I usually like to get a name before I accept drinks from strangers,” he says, but the smirk has settled fully on his features, the tiny cocktail straw stuck between his teeth.

Louis can play this game. He’s not so lost to his work as a novelist that he’s forgotten how to flirt. “Ah, but where’s the excitement in revealing my cards so early?”

“I’ll trade? I’m Harry,” he says, holding a hand out to Louis, all long fingers, each adorned with a ring of a different size and heft.

Louis takes his hand and shakes it with his own, feels that magnetic zip through the veins in his wrist. “Nice to meet you, Harry,” he says and then adds, “Harry with his… many fans.” The gaggle of men and women alike are still hovering, eyes flicking to them curiously on and off.

“Bit of a regular here…?” Harry lets the statement hang in the air, still searching for Louis’ name. He’s not forgotten their agreement.

Louis licks over his lips and stares him down, lets him sweat it out for a moment, not so keen to give in like his other companions behind him. “Louis,” he eventually concedes.

“Louis,” Harry repeats, rolls it around in his mouth like he’s already contemplating all the different ways he can say it. Louis knows he himself certainly is, blaming the beer when his brain helpfully supplies a thought of what it might sound like in bed. He clears his throat. 

“You have a great voice. Really like this whole -” Louis gestures to the scarf and the jumper attempting to swallow him. “Vibe,” he settles on.

Harry ducks his head with a chuckle that’s close to bashful. “New fan then?”

“Something like that,” Louis agrees, a smile on his own lips as he sips his beer. “Might have to make Thursday night karaoke my new thing.”

Harry tilts his head. “Do you sing?”

“No,” Louis scoffs. “Not seriously, anyway. I’ve been known to get up and do a bit of  _ Like A Prayer _ . It’s a rare occurrence.”

Harry laughs. It’s loud and genuine and fills Louis with warmth that has nothing to do with the pint he’s currently holding. He finds himself thinking he’d do just about anything to hear it again, be the reason Harry’s dimple pops and his face splits into a grin. He’s almost ready to storm the stage, if necessary.  _ Almost _ .

“Then I hope you keep coming ‘round. Maybe I’ll get lucky someday,” Harry says, leaning down onto the bar so he’s a bit more level with Louis.

Louis chuckles, amused. “Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart.”

It’s then that his phone starts to blow up, skittering across the bar with Zayn’s name. Harry’s eyes fall to the screen and his smile immediately drops, turning cautious all at once. Louis reaches for it and presses the side button to silence the vibrating.

“Best mate,” Louis explains, turning to glance down the length of the bar to both Zayn and Liam. Zayn holds up his phone and waves it, indicating for Louis to pick up, and Louis rolls his eyes. 

Harry watches on curiously as Louis answers his phone. “Honestly, Z, who calls someone at a pub? What is it?”

“Do you need me to rescue you? Is he awful?” Zayn asks from the other end.

Louis looks right at Harry as he answers him. “No. Quite the opposite. He’s lovely.”

Harry tucks his bottom lip between his teeth to suppress the smile. Louis’ just pleased he’s been able to bring it back once again after being rudely interrupted. He can hear Liam shouting his worry in the background, loud enough that Louis’ pretty sure he can hear it from this end of the bar as well.

“All set here, lads. Thanks for your concern,” Louis tells him and hangs up. His attention, having hardly drifted, lands back on Harry. 

“Can I get your number?”

x

It’s 2am when Louis finally unlocks his flat and steps into the dark. He’d spent the entire evening talking to Harry after he’d tapped him into his contacts, captured by every last thing that left his mouth.

Louis had learned that he  _ is _ a creative. A photographer, to be exact, but he likes to think of himself as an artist, in general, dabbling in mixed media compositions and collages that incorporate his photos. He’s originally from the north, near Manchester, and when he hits a block, hates all his pieces, he spends his time baking. He’s currently baking his way through a book that’s dedicated to bread. Unlike Zayn, he lives in a flat that’s adjacent to his studio and he prefers to work with film whenever time and projects allow. He’s a vegetarian and has been transitioning his wardrobe to one that’s entirely secondhand and sustainable over the last year. Louis had found himself asking question after question, the conversation twisting from one subject and then turning to another, but never once stumbling or faltering. In fact, Louis’ certain he’d still be sat there, listening to the slow, honey rhythm of Harry’s voice if the bell hadn’t rung for last call. 

He sits down at his desk and turns the small lamp on in the corner. The sudden light stings his eyes until they adjust and he reaches for his well loved notebook, flipping to the page marked by a faded ribbon, frayed at the end. He adds one line and shuts it again, sending himself to bed.

_ i was unprepared for you _

x

A week later, Louis takes Harry out. He’s been very careful not to define it over their text conversations, but it is, for all intents and purposes, a date. He knows this because he spends an extra twenty minutes fussing with product in his hair and chooses an outfit that shows off some of his tattoos and accentuates his best assets while being artfully casual. They are just going to a gig, after all, and Louis doesn’t want to be humiliated by putting in  _ too  _ much effort if it all goes tits up in the end. He’s really, really hoping it doesn’t, that this is the start of something stable to look forward to in the coming days, weeks, and that alone means something. 

They meet outside the venue just before 8pm, tickets to Catfish and the Bottlemen in hand. Harry shows up sans head scarf, but in black skinny jeans and a sheer shirt tucked under a tailored jacket that is decidedly  _ not _ casual and instead makes Louis want to melt into the pavement. He can see the shadows of tattoos on his stomach, across his collarbones, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe, much less speak. For a guy that he’d spotted on a train platform and daydreamed about his unique choice of suiting, it feels serendipitous to be standing here, inviting him into his life. Louis hopes he’s here to stay for a while. 

“Have you seen them before?” Louis asks after he manages to forge ahead with a greeting. 

Harry shakes his head, playfully snatching his ticket from the two Louis holds up. “I haven’t! Big fan of  _ The Ride _ , but never got around to getting tickets. I’m impressed.”

“They’re one of my favourites,” Louis tells him as he holds his ticket out to be scanned. “I’ve had these for ages.”

“So did you have to ditch a friend then to take me?” Harry asks.

Louis looks at him, slightly horrified Harry thinks so little of him, but his expression is teasing, a laugh already working its way to the surface when he sees Louis’ face fall.

“I’m only joking!” Harry assures him, squeezing his bicep that leaves Louis’ skin burning beneath his jumper. 

Louis glares at him as he passes security inside, but there’s no malice behind it. “No, but actually. Zayn’s probably delighted he didn’t have to come with me. Not exactly his cup of tea.”

“Well, feel free to ring me if you’ve any other tickets up your sleeve,” Harry tells him with a coy smile. His attention is stolen away by the bartender before Louis can properly answer, but he’s more pleased than he should be that Harry potentially sees him in his future. 

They each get a mixed drink, an Old Fashioned for Harry and a vodka Red Bull for Louis. The venue fills in nicely by the time the opening band hits the stage and they yell over the guitars, the bass, hovering back by the bar rather than anywhere near the floor, alive with movement. Harry leans close to his side, aims his words towards his ear so Louis can attempt to hear, and tells him about the project he’s currently working on, merging florals with city scenes. A window replaced with blooms of dahlias, a door substituted by a tangle of vines, an entire street no longer a street, but a path of zinnias and ranunculus that Harry’s carefully cut and arranged in place on the photo.

And so Louis keeps learning. He learns that Harry’s passionate about what he does, that he likes to blend juxtaposing elements to create something beautiful and unexpected. The set he’s currently working on is for his favourite fitness studio, the spot behind reception waiting for the finished pieces, so he discovers that Harry loves yoga and pilates and running, anything to move his body and connect his mind, but is admittedly poor at sports. He’s stubborn about this, insistent, and shares an embarrassing story about spraining his ankle while kicking about a football with his friends that he nursed for weeks.

But Louis shares too, shouting over the music. Louis shares that he  _ isn’t _ poor at sports, that he’s actually quite good at football and if he hadn’t chosen writing, he likely would have tried to head down the equally impractical road of professional sports. He tells Harry that he’s not a vegetarian, tries to eat as little green food as possible if he can help it, and that his diet is made up of three main food groups - pizza, pasta, and burgers. As they talk, separate their similarities and differences, none of it feels like a hindrance to this thing between them. They bond over what they have in common and mutually respect what they don’t, captivated enough by one another to show interest regardless of where their conversation falls.

Louis only notices Catfish and the Bottlemen have taken the stage when they’re halfway through their set. He shoots Harry a look that’s both shocked and apologetic, wrapped up in their meandering chat, but Harry just shrugs his shoulders, wearing the same smile he has all night. He doesn’t seem the least bit put out that he’s on a date with, potentially, the worst concert companion of all time, one who’s spent the entire evening competing with a setlist and trying to be heard over the drums. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry! You’ve never seen them before and I’ve just made you miss the first half,” Louis tells him, voice loud and slow to enunciate over the music.

Harry gives him a bemused smile. “Maybe now I might be able to catch the second half,” he teases.

“Oi!” Louis laughs, pretending to look affronted, but quickly recognises he’s already familiar with Harry’s ribbing.

With another round of drinks in hand, they turn their attention to the band to watch the rest of the show. Or Harry does at least. Louis finds himself busy glancing from the stage to Harry, watching the way the lights change colour and catch in his hair, light up the shadows on his face and the shapes his lips make as he mouths the words to the songs he knows. Live music is an experience that’s unmatched by anything else in Louis’ life. It’s the feeling of being in a room full of strangers and feeling connected by the songs that string themselves around the heart and settle into his bones. He’s still getting to know Harry, who he is as a person, who he is an artist, who he is as, potentially, someone Louis would like to know for a very long time, but in that moment, as he watches him sing every word to  _ Longshot _ , Louis feels like he already does. Harry catches him out a second later and they share a long look, charged with the intimacy of experiencing this moment together. 

Later, after he’s bid Harry goodbye at his doorstep and agreed to see him again soon, Louis thinks about the rest of the evening in his Uber ride across the city. He thinks about the show, how they’d sang at the top of their lungs side by side, and when the encore ended, had turned back to the bar for another drink and picked their conversation back up like it had never ceased in the first place. He thinks about the moment he turned to Harry, placed a hand on the side of his neck and thumbed along the sharp line of his jaw as he drew him into a kiss that tasted like the twist of orange peel that sat in the bottom of his glass. He thinks about the moment Harry’s lips split into a grin, laughing into each other’s mouths as giddiness bubbled over like frothing champagne. Mostly, though, he thinks about the way Harry leaned back into him with no hesitation, kissed him boldly with a swipe of tongue that made Louis weak in the knees and hot down his spine.

As the passing streetlights and cars throw stripes of illumination across the back seat of the car, Louis opens a note on his phone, licking over his bottom lip dry with alcohol and the taste of rye lingering behind. 

_ not drunk on anything but you _

x

After that, it becomes a regular thing. He sees Harry a few times a week in various settings, different activities that they halfheartedly partake in, far too wrapped up in one another to direct  their attention anywhere else. Louis takes Harry to see a film he’s been on about for the last week, but like the concert, they miss most of it, hidden away in the back corner of the cinema with their smiles pressed together and hands in inappropriate places. Harry’s turn finds them in one of those paint night situations to which Louis whinges about being a  _ writer _ , not a  _ painter _ . The entire class passes with only the base colours on Louis’ canvas, most of his paint ending up on Harry’s apron as he draws a smiley face, a stick figure on a skateboard, their initials together with the year, much to the instructor’s disapproval. When they leave, Louis tosses his canvas straight into the rubbish, half finished, but Harry rewards his  _ valiant _ (“You hardly tried, Lou!”) effort with his own canvas, asks Louis to find somewhere special to hang it.

So he does. Louis spends an unusually sunny afternoon with the windows open and a record on, carefully banging a nail into the wall over his desk and positioning the canvas until it’s straight. It’s just a simplistic take on the London Eye, but somehow Harry’s managed to take a few basic acrylic colours and turn them into a masterpiece that owes its inspiration to Impressionism. Louis sits down and stares up at the painting for a while, lost to the memory of Harry’s laughter when Louis had got paint in his fringe, when he’d beaten Louis at several games of noughts and crosses on his apron. Harry had tried to suppress that laughter when Louis was scolded not once, but  _ twice _ , his lips rolled into his mouth and his nose scrunched. It makes Louis feel warm, his chest tight with fondness and affection, a feeling that grows more familiar the more time he spends with Harry, around Harry, in his orbit.

Louis turns his face to the sun streaming into his flat, open to the fresh air that wafts in on a gentle breeze even as his eyes close against the glare. He breathes deeply and lets it out as he opens them again, turning to his journal busy with notes and lines, some scribbled, some underlined, beginning to build and collect.

_ you warm me like sunshine in every season _

x

Louis meets Niall when he’s been seeing Harry just shy of two months. They go out for a few pints at the same pub he’d met Harry and Louis is grateful that it’s not karaoke night. Harry’s hardly let it go and it’s taken some creative dodging to avoid the place whenever Thursday rolls around. Instead, they grab a booth so they can sit together comfortably and order a plate of nachos that they demolish over the course of an hour.

Niall, as it turns out, is great company. He’s loud and boisterous, almost Irish to a fault, and hilarious enough that Louis has to clap his hand over his mouth several times to keep from spouting beer. He’s engaged, start to finish, as they talk music and football and everything in between, his enthusiasm and energy matching Louis’. He realises then how long it’s been since he’s made a new friend, and though he loves Zayn and Liam, he can’t remember the last time he’d folded a new mate into his circle, Harry notwithstanding. 

“So you’ve been friends how long?” Louis asks as he pokes an olive off a corn chip.

Niall looks to Harry as he tries to do maths in his head, both hands clasped around his pint glass. “Shit, must be going on ten years now, yeah? Since uni is the easy answer.”

“Niall was my flatmate,” Harry tells Louis. “I was actually supposed to live with this other bloke, but he ended up dropping out right before we started. So Niall took his place and the rest really is history.”

Harry picks up Louis’ discarded olive to eat instead and Niall rolls his eyes. “The two of ya. Already disgusting,” he says, but it’s good natured, a smile on his face even as he sips his beer. 

Harry throws a jalapeno at him. “You’re the one who kept on at me to date!”

“Oh?” Louis raises his eyebrows curiously. “Now this is getting interesting. Do tell, Niall!”

Harry stares at Niall, eyes blown wide with warning, but Niall just grins, shit eating, and forges ahead. “Harry’s a bit of a serial dater. Always on the hunt for Mr. Right and disappointed one too many times. Just needed a bit of encouragement, ya know, to be more selective.”

“And I’ve been selected then?” Louis quips, amused, even if his heart is threatening to fall to the pit of his stomach at potentially  _ not _ being a good fit.

Harry groans and shoots Niall a glare, mouths at him  _ we’ll talk about this later _ like an old married couple. “He’s making it sound worse than it is.”

“I am,” Niall laughs, agreeing. “Don’t worry, Louis. He’s not shut up about you since he met you. Usually I’ve to ring him with a made up emergency, but I haven’t had to once!”

Harry’s cheeks go a shade of pink. “I can’t believe I stayed mates with you after uni. Look what good that’s done me.”

They all share a laugh, Niall raising his glass to cheers and not at all offended. “So. You heard Harry here sing some Fleetwood and decided you had to have him?”

Even when Harry looks at him for his answer, chin resting in his palm with curiosity, Louis takes a moment to answer. Because it sounds simple when Niall puts it that way and, Louis muses, maybe it is. Maybe he’d never stood a chance the second he spotted Harry on that platform and willed him into his life. Maybe after their first conversation that spanned hours, captured by the bottle green of his eyes and hooked by his smile, just a bit toothy, but made undeniably sexy by the dimple in his cheek, Louis was a pure goner. Maybe sharing music and art and books and all the pleasures in life that makes one undeniably human had prompted Louis to wrap up his heart neatly with a bow and offer it, quietly, subtly, to Harry. 

Louis looks right back at him, his eyes flickering over his face, his features and the details he’s still learning, but finds himself lost in thought about when he’s alone. “Something like that,” he decides on.

Harry smiles slow and bashful as they sit there staring at one another. There’s no need to communicate, both in silent agreement that at least in this chapter of their lives, there is no one else they’d rather spend time with. That Harry has chosen Louis and in turn, Louis has chosen him right back.

Niall clears his throat. “For the love of God, what are you two doing? I’m still here!”

Louis laughs, his eyes hanging onto Harry’s for one more fleeting second before he turns back to Niall. “I actually saw him before that night. Never told you that, H, but I saw you getting the tube one morning. Hammersmith.”

“That’s the station near my flat,” Harry says, surprise colouring his face. “You saw me?”

Louis nods. “I had a meeting, actually. Think you did too. You had on this blue velvet suit. And a bag. Looked expensive. Thought the whole thing was a bit different, but I liked it.”

“He loves that suit,” Niall supplies helpfully. 

Harry nods eagerly, leaning closer to Louis like he’s about to divulge more secret intel. “It’s a Gucci bag. You’ve seen it.”

“I have,” Louis laughs. Harry takes that bag everywhere if they’re going anywhere longer than a few minutes, stuffed with his wallet and lip balm and his ridiculous ring of keys. “Anyway. It sounds weird now, but I noticed you.”

Harry doesn’t answer him, lost again while staring openly at him, expression gone fond. Louis chuckles and looks away to sip his beer, more aware of Niall gaping at them from the other side of the table for the - Louis’ lost count - nth time that night.

“Christ,” Niall sighs with mock defeat. “If the universe works in mysterious ways, it’s done a number on you two.”

That notion isn’t lost on Louis. He often marvels over the unlikeliness of looking up, seconds before his arriving train, and noticing a human who stood out so brightly, sharply, against the mundanity of life that Louis had taken that feeling with him all the way back home. He ponders over the improbability of finding that same human in a city of nearly nine million, singing a song from decades past in a pub that Louis visits, at most, once or twice a year. And better yet, he’s baffled by his luck that Harry’s interest had fallen to him at all with a flock of others surrounding him. Yes, indeed, the universe works in mysterious ways.

Later, when he’s lying awake in bed, staring at the tiny cracks in his ceiling come to life by the streetlights, he wonders

_ would you be the centre of mine?  _

x

Publisher events have never been Louis’ cup of tea. He has a long list of excuses written down in the back of his notebook to get out of these things, but every few months he drags himself out just to avoid suspicion. He doesn’t understand the necessity of attending what is, essentially, a glorified dinner party.  _ Networking _ is the first thing his agent references, but Louis’ never been one to rub elbows and suck up to his peers just to get ahead. As a writer, one who takes his craft seriously and whose stories are a part of him, he prefers his work to stand on its own.

He’d received the invitation a couple weeks ago and left it on his kitchen worktop by accident, in plain view of Harry’s wandering eyes as he cooked a curry one night. Harry, being Harry, had insisted they attend, agreeing wholeheartedly with his agent that it didn’t hurt to have a few friends in the industry. Before Louis could really disagree or argue back, Harry had checked off their RSVP and whisked it off to Louis’ post to be picked up the following day. Louis had scowled all through dinner until Harry kissed his breath from his lungs and he’d caved, forgiven.

Tonight, Harry has on the blue suit again. It’s the only thing Louis can really focus on from the moment they leave his flat to the second they arrive. He’s not sure if it’s seeing the detail, the fit up close, or the elegant white clutch in Harry’s hands, but he’s distracted by his beauty, his pure joy and pride in accompanying Louis inside. So much so that when his agent immediately finds them upon their entrance, it takes Louis a full ten seconds to tear his eyes from Harry and acknowledge him. 

“Hi, Mason,” Louis says, shaking his hand while clapping him on the shoulder with his opposite one. He turns to introduce Harry and realizes in that moment he’s unsure of  _ how _ to introduce him.  _ My Harry _ doesn’t quite seem adequate, but they haven’t had  _ that _ talk thus far. Their relationship has been, for all intents and purposes, casual, though to Louis, it feels anything but. Louis stares, falls into tense silence, but in the end, his bravery gets the best of him and he plunges in with both feet. “This is my boyfriend, Harry.”

And if Louis had thought Harry’s happiness had been visible before, it’s nothing to the way his face splits, smile brilliant and his eyebrows giving away both his surprise and his delight. Louis tries to take a mental picture; there’s only one first time to introduce Harry as his. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard loads,” Harry says, extending his hand.

“Loads of shit, I’m sure,” Mason laughs as they shake. There’s a mix of curiosity and scepticism written across his own face and when he looks back at Louis, it’s with an expression that tells Louis he’ll have some explaining to do later. He probably should have been prepared for that; it  _ is  _ the first time he’s ever brought a plus one to an event.

They make a sweep around the room after, shaking hands with people Louis only sort of knows, most of whose names he can’t remember. Where Louis says hello and feigns interest for approximately thirty seconds, Harry seems to memorise their names, genuinely engaged in conversation about what genre they write, their newest projects. When talk steers from work, he asks about their families, where they live, their favourite restaurants or favourite book shops. Louis is not a poor conversationalist - in fact he can be downright charming when he wants to be - but he’s never seen charisma like he witnesses on Harry. He spends a good chunk of the cocktail hour watching him from afar, perfectly comfortable on his own.

“This something new then or have you been keeping secrets?” Mason asks him, effectively startling Louis enough to slosh his drink over his hand.

Louis glares as he wipes it up with a napkin. “Both. Newish. But I’ve not told you, so I reckon it’s a secret.”

“Is he a writer?”

Louis shakes his head. “A photographer, mostly. Suppose artist is a better word.”

Mason hums his acknowledgement and takes a sip of his beer. “Fits right in, doesn’t he? Better than you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis laughs, his eyes rolling. “You know I hate these things.”

Mason grins. “Maybe you’ll actually show up more than once a year now.”

“Fat chance,” Louis quips back. He finishes his drink and sets the empty glass aside on a table. “This has been fun, as always, but I’m gonna grab my boy before someone else in this room steals him and he realises he’s out of my league.”

Harry’s deep in conversation about, what Louis overhears to be as he approaches, a Netflix special about felines. He cuts in easily with a smile and a gentle hand at Harry’s elbow as he excuses himself. Louis leads him away towards the bar, just out of earshot. “Want to ditch this place? Maybe head to Shake Shack?”

“Oh god. Yes. I’m starving and I don’t want to hear anymore about that woman’s cat,” Harry says quickly, his shoulders sagging in relief.

Louis can’t help but laugh. There are no bounds to Harry’s politeness, willing to put his own discomfort aside to hear one riveting tale after another about Margaret’s cat. He realises then, with startling clarity, just how much he adores Harry. The laughter fades until he’s simply smiling, soft and tender, openly staring at him without a shred of articulation to back himself up. To Harry’s credit, he says nothing about it.

“Should we say goodbye? At least to Mason?” Harry suggests.

Louis turns to find Mason in the room, in conversation with a group of two or three, and shakes his head, taking Harry’s hand to hurry him off in the direction they came in. “They won’t miss us. Promise.”

They leave a room full of his colleagues behind and take the tube to Covent Garden. Shake Shack is still busy even for this hour, tables crowded with friends on an evening out, and they stick out like sore thumbs, Harry in his velvet suit and Louis in a plain shirt and oxfords. It doesn’t matter, though, not to them, as they find their own tiny booth for two. Louis never thought he’d be part of a couple that sits on the same side, but that’s exactly how he finds himself, divvying up ketchup between them and sharing the same milkshake. He takes a breath before he starts to eat, just looks at Harry’s face in profile like he’s done so many times tonight, and thinks

_ sometimes all i think i need is you _

x

Late summer brings a week of warm showers that leaves everything damp and bright green, the sky one long, white-grey cloud as the sun tries its hardest to break through. They spend time outside anyway, kicking around one of Louis’ footballs as he tries his hardest to give pointers, teach Harry a thing or two that won’t land him on his arse when his feet get tangled. Sometimes, after, they’ll venture down the street for an ice cream (mint chip for both of them) and eat it outside on a bench, the rain kissing their faces the same temperature as the air. Most of the time, though, they stay inside with a fan on trying to battle the humidity, sometimes working, sometimes reading, sometimes baking when Harry can be bothered to turn the oven on.

Today is an inside day, the gentle showers turning to downpours that last through most of the day and make the inside of Louis’ flat feel dark, like it’s dusk rather than nearly noon. As soon as he wakes up, he can feel the heaviness in his eyelids urging him back to sleep simply from the gloom that has taken over every corner of his bedroom. Harry is still asleep, at least he thinks he is, so Louis shuffles shirtless to the kitchen to put the kettle on and stares outside to the rain beating the pavement, each drop creating its own tiny tidal wave. He gets lost gazing, eyes out of focus, until a pair of arms circles around his waist.

“Come back to bed,” Harry whispers into the side of his neck, his face still sleep warm.

Louis leans back into his chest and closes his heavy eyes. “Once the tea is done.”

“You’re the only person I know who will prioritise tea over sleep. Or me,” Harry adds, but he’s smiling, like it’s one of those infuriating quirks Louis has that he can’t help but find endearing.

“It’s mid-day, love. If I sleep all day, I won’t sleep tonight,” Louis says. He pours the water into two mugs - one from his publishing company he uses all the time, the other a relic from a past holiday that Harry’s staked claim on - and hands one to Harry. 

They take their tea back to the bedroom, sipping slowly while they scroll aimlessly on their phones. Harry’s turned on the fairy lights that hang corner to corner, warming the room from grey to golden. Sometime over the course of an hour, the unmade bed becomes more like a cocoon, a nest, around them, and when Harry grows bored, their mugs abandoned, he rolls on top of Louis, pins him into the mattress below. He takes his time raising goosebumps on Louis’ skin with his lips despite the mugginess that lingers in the air. Louis’ not sure of how much time passes, a half hour or two, just that he feels like he could melt into the mattress with the care in which Harry touches him. 

The first time he and Harry had been intimate, it had followed a long night of drinking and poker at Liam’s. Niall had wiped the floor with all four of them, so by the time midnight had come and gone, Louis had been more than happy to drag himself and Harry back to his flat. The night had been warm, but not too sticky, so they’d walked, talking about everything and nothing at the same time as they wove their way through the streets of London. At one point, Harry had taken a wrong turn and Louis had followed him blindly, customary by then. He hadn’t been able to find the anger within himself when he’d finally realised they’d walked half a mile out of the way, just laughed until his stomach hurt and he could hear Harry’s laughter echoing in his ears. Harry’s mistake had really just meant taking the long way home, more time to enjoy one another’s company before calling it curtains on the evening.

Louis’ flat had been quiet save for the sounds of the city it welcomed through its open windows. He hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on, letting London’s glow filter in and light their way to his bedroom. The moment Louis’ feet had crossed the threshold, their shared laughter, smiles, joy of the evening cracked like static in the air and made Louis flush warm down his spine. He hadn’t even been able to act first, his brain drunk slow and cloudy with summer air. Harry had been on him like a man starved and had taken him apart at his own leisure, every touch deliberate, green eyes focused and intuitive to Louis’ every need, every want.

It had been longer than Louis wanted to admit that first night Harry touched him, brought him to the edge with just his fingers and fucked him with more skill than he should’ve been allowed after the amount of alcohol they’d both consumed. Louis had been drunk, but his memory apparently hadn’t been, that night always brought into sharp focus whenever he’s lost between the sheets with Harry. He thinks about that night when Harry’s fingers twist inside him now, makes his back arch from the mattress while he grabs fistfuls of the sheets and Harry’s hair. He thinks how, even intoxicated and sex stupid that night, he’d wished for Harry to stay in his life a little longer and has somehow managed to hold onto him this long. He doesn’t know if he and Harry are a forever kind of thing, but with startling clarity, Louis knows he wants them to be.

After, as the sweat cools on their skin and remains puddled at the small of Louis’ back, behind his knees, Louis blinks languid and lazy as if set to slow motion, watching Harry watch him. They lay there, side by side, saying nothing, but not needing a word between them. Harry’s lips turn up, the dimple a mere suggestion against his cheek, with one of his hands pillowed under the opposite. Louis reaches out and drags his fingertip down the bridge of Harry’s nose, over his lips and chin, and across Harry’s chest. He loops his index finger around the fine chain that holds the cross Harry never takes off.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Louis whispers, spoken like a true admission. His breath feels like it dies in his lungs, his heart racing wildly inside his rib cage like an animal ready to flee.

Harry stops breathing. Louis can see the moment he does again, the sharp inhale between his parted lips. He closes his eyes, prepares himself for Harry to let him down gently. To tell him that these last three, four months have been fun, he’s been a great lay, but he doesn’t see this going anywhere.

But it doesn’t come. When Louis blinks, Harry’s smiling dopily at him, his whole face soft in the gentle cast of light and his eyes glassy like he’s on the verge of tears. Louis’ pretty sure he actually might be.

“I’m in love with you,” Harry answers, his voice thick. With emotion, with incredulity, Louis’ not sure, life being punched back into his chest with shallow puffs as he tries to wrap his head around what Harry’s just said. “I love you, Lou.”

“Yeah?” Louis breathes, his lips turning up on one side. “You love me?” 

“I love you,” Harry repeats while nodding quickly, his tone coloured with laughter threatening to burst.

Louis’ lopsided smile turns into a full grin, ear to ear and ready to split. “I love you, H. I’ll give you my whole heart if you’ll have it.”

“I’ll keep it safe,” Harry promises in a whisper. 

Louis gives his cross a gentle tug and pulls him in to brush their lips together, ghost light. “I know you will.”

When Harry kisses him this time, it feels different. Louis’ mind, heart, spirit don’t feel like they belong to only him anymore, that he shares them all with Harry. He’s shown him his good and trusts him to reveal his bad. He has faith in Harry’s ability to keep all his vulnerabilities safe. When his lips part, inviting Harry’s tongue with his own, he hopes Harry feels the same, can feel his promise through the tender way in which Louis kisses him. 

_ i will keep you safe. i will love you unconditionally. i will love your beautiful and ugly soul _

x

It’s early autumn when Harry insists Louis meet his family. Over the course of two weeks, they make plans to head north and spend the weekend in Cheshire. Harry’s already requested his mum make her famous Sunday roast and lemon sponge for dessert, nearly drooling as he describes in detail all the love folded into the meal. Louis warns of a deadline that falls on the same weekend that’s looming over his head, but he’s helpless to Harry’s wants and desires so, in a moment of weakness, he promises to figure it out.

As luck would have it (or rather, Louis’ procrastination), though, he does  _ not _ figure it out. He’s been up all night trying to finish, but by the time the sun starts to rise, Louis knows there’s no way he can leave his flat today. He needs to crank out the next six chapters to send off for proofing and revision by tonight and he’s only got two done. Instead of making progress through the early hours of the morning, Louis rolls scenarios around in his head that volley between  _ Harry will understand  _ and  _ Harry’s going to fucking kill me and this will be the end of our relationship _ . 

It’s 9am when Louis finally musters the courage and deems it an appropriate time to ring. 

“Hey, baby,” he answers when Harry picks up, sounding sleepy on the other end, but light, the way one does when there’s something to look forward to in the day.

There must be something in Louis’ tone that immediately gives him away, though, too tender, too soft, too stiff under the covers. “What is it?” Harry asks, suspicious almost immediately.

“Nothing!” Louis chirps. He clears his throat after, letting out a long breath that flutters his fringe. “Well. Sort of. Remember that deadline I mentioned? The one this weekend?”

Silence. There’s a rustle, a quiver of bedlinen, and then Harry speaks again. “The deadline you were supposed to have already met so we could visit my family like we agreed to?” he asks, sharp.

“Well…” Louis trails, searching for a way out. He squeezes his eyes shut, pacing back and forth in front of his desk, and when he opens them, his draft is mocking him from his laptop. He flips it off defiantly and presses ahead. “Yes. Turns out I’m… a bit  _ behind _ , I reckon. Just a bit! Or, you know, a lot. I still have a lot to finish.”

Harry’s silence is steely. It’s almost worse than the long, disappointed sigh that comes through a moment later that rockets itself between Louis’ ribs. “Louis. You  _ promised _ me. You said we would go!” Harry says, his tone climbing.

“I know, but. I’ve been struggling to write lately and it’s just gotten away -“

Harry cuts him off. “Do you not want to meet them? Are you nervous or something? Because I’m positive my mum will love you, Lou.”

“No, no. That’s not it,” Louis says, shaking his head to himself. It’s  _ not _ the reason, but it may have been a  _ part  _ of the reason his writing had slowed to a crawl all week, his mind wracked with nerves.

“I get deadlines, Louis. You know I do,” Harry says firmly. “But you knew how important this was to me. You  _ knew _ that.”

Louis drops himself down onto the sofa, face first. A part of him hopes he suffocates before he can gather a suitable answer. “I know,” he mumbles, straight into a throw pillow.

“What?”

“I said, I know. I just… can’t make it, Harry. I’m sorry. I really need to get this done,” Louis sighs. He feels the defeat in every part of his body, but it weighs the most heavily in his heart.

The silence stretches so long that Louis’ certain Harry’s hung up on him. He deserves that, he thinks. “Just never thought you’d do this,” he eventually says.

“Yeah, me either,” Louis agrees, rolling onto his back. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

Another shuffle. “I’ll call you. When I get back or something.”

Louis opens his mouth to counter, to argue. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving things so open ended, unresolved. He knows he’ll spend more time spinning over their conversation and what it means for them, if there  _ is _ a them, than he will finishing his draft. By the time he starts to speak, the line beeps with the ended call, Harry long gone. Louis chucks his phone so it skitters across his coffee table and folds his arms across his face, a growl of frustration filling the room. 

When he gets up again, it’s nearly noon and it’s begun to rain. Clouds collect in a hurry, turning from grey to black, the flat sinking into darkness as big, fat drops hit the windows. It’s the kind of weather that usually drives productivity for Louis, but it just makes him feel heavier, like his heart is sinking to his feet and about to pull him through the floor. Any desire or motivation he had through the night and early morning is gone now, all of his thoughts drifting away on the same wind that beats against his building. He will get nothing else done today. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” he asks out loud. He doesn’t give himself the opportunity to think or answer, just grabs an extra hoodie from the rack by the door and shoves his feet in his trainers.

The rain had looked cold from inside his flat, miserable and intimidating, but it’s far worse when Louis steps one foot outside. His hood blows off his head and his hair flattens almost immediately with pouring rain before he can pull it back on. Each drop pelts his face and makes it hard to see as he walks, bitter, raw cold nipping at his hands and his cheeks and his neck. He considers taking the tube, but he doesn’t trust the abbreviated weekend schedule to be any faster than he is on foot. 

By the time he makes it to Harry’s, he’s soaked through. It feels like he’s sopping wet down to the bone and only when he lifts his hand to ring Harry’s flat, does he realise he’s shivering, fingertips shaking. He almost misses the crackle of the intercom beneath the roar of the rain.

“Hello?”

“Harry,” Louis calls, pressing close to the box to be heard as he attempts to fold himself beneath the overhang. “Let me up? Please?”

“Louis? What are you doing here?” Harry asks, both surprised and impatient. When he speaks again, it’s like he’s looked outside and seen the storm that’s rolled in, stubbornness ebbing. “Fuck, come in, yeah. Come in.”

Louis doesn’t answer, just wrenches the door open as soon as it buzzes. He marches up the two flights of stairs, leaving squashy footprints on the carpet in his wake, trainers squelching. In hindsight, he wishes he  _ had _ put a few minutes of thought into this, knowing he looks, for lack of a better descriptor, like a drowned rat. He feels like one too.

“You haven’t left yet,” Louis breathes as soon as Harry opens the door.

Harry’s eyes are almost comically wide, deep green in the dim light, as he shakes his head, gesturing vaguely. “The weather… Lou, did you walk here? Jesus Christ, you’re going to catch pneumonia that way!”

“Couldn’t wait for you to call me.” Louis’ teeth chatter through his words, his arms wrapped around himself even though it does nothing but constrict his wet clothes uncomfortably.

Harry softens. It’s visible in the way his shoulders drop, all the fight gone out of him. He eases the door open fully, gently grabbing a hold of Louis’ hoodie to tug him inside. “Get in here, babe. Let’s get you some dry clothes.”

Louis’ heart settles fifteen minutes later when he’s sat on Harry’s sofa, surrounded in warm, soft clothes that don’t belong to him with a mug clutched in his hands. He sniffles, from the cold outside and the steam rising off his tea, but he’s comforted by the fact that he’s in Harry’s flat. It’s familiar, soothing to the burn left by their fight. Aside from his own home, it’s his favourite place to be. He loves the vintage cameras Harry has hanging artfully on the wall, loves that all his furniture is mismatched, but that it sits together well with a found feeling. As the room surrounds them, it all feels like a tight embrace. 

“I thought you would’ve been gone,” Louis repeats, words muddled around the lip of his mug. 

Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t want to drive in the rain by myself. Makes me -“

“Nervous, yeah,” Louis finishes for him, nodding. 

Harry purses his lips to the side, picking at the edge of the blanket he’d nearly swaddled Louis in. “Your draft. Did you finish?”

“No. I’ll… ask for an extension or something. Should’ve just done that to begin with,” Louis sighs, tilting his head back until it hits the back of the sofa and all he can see is the ceiling. “I don’t know why I prioritised that over you. Your family. Because it’s not. You know. It’s not more important than you.”

Harry reaches out and curls his fingers around Louis’ elbow with a gentle squeeze. “I may have overreacted a bit.”

“No. You didn’t, H,” Louis murmurs, turning his head. “I think you were right. I was nervous. And by this morning, I hadn’t slept and just. Got more concerned about making a dick of meself and instead I just made a bollocks of everything.” He waves a hand around in frustration, rolling his eyes at himself. 

“You’re so daft,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head. Louis’ just happy to see him smiling instead of stormy and angry, the way he knows he can get, usually directed towards other people. 

“Realising that,” Louis concedes. He takes another sip of tea and then sets the mug on the coffee table in front of him. His arm closest to Harry lifts, an invitation. “C’mere.”

Harry only hesitates a second before he folds himself into Louis’ side. Even now, it still amazes Louis that someone so long and lanky and uncoordinated as Harry can turn himself so small to fit just right. 

“You’re the most important thing in me life, Harry. Promise nothing will ever come before you,” Louis says. He traces a finger over his heart and then over Harry’s. “Lesson learned.”

Harry nods minutely, his arm squeezing across Louis’ stomach and over his opposite side. “Love you,” he whispers. 

Those words wipe away any lingering anxiety sitting in Louis’ chest. He’d ran over here in a whirlwind of desperation, terrified to find an empty flat, dread filling his stomach that his phone would remain silent for a day, two days, a week until their relationship turned to dust and blew away, a figment of his imagination. It’s taught him something invaluable; not to take Harry, what they have together, what they’ve built together, for granted. 

“I love you. All my heart,” Louis answers him. He brushes a hand up through Harry’s hair, watches each strand curl around his fingers like a hug. 

Harry falls asleep like that, half on his shoulder, half on his chest, lips parted peacefully as he breathes. Louis wonders if he’s half as exhausted as he himself is, emotionally drained. Still, Louis finds himself awake, his thoughts in a fog as he watches the rain pound the windows. He doesn’t have his laptop, nor does he have his phone, but there’s no one he needs or wants to speak to. His deadline is far from mind. It’s not the first time he’ll have to beg for Mason’s forgiveness for a late draft. The only thing that matters is the weight of Harry’s head, his breath that blows warm against his jaw. Louis closes his eyes. 

_ you are my morning, afternoon, and evening. dawn, high noon, and dusk _

x

They head north on Sunday. The storm had blown away sometime overnight and had left behind a sky of limitless, unmarred blue, wisps of clouds barely collecting. The countryside, unusually green for this time of year, had stretched ahead, wet and heavy with leftover raindrops. Even the car windows had reflected sunlight through the lens of each droplet, the interior dancing with shimmering spots. Louis had watched the signs and road markers pass, each one pulling them closer to Cheshire. 

Anne had been lovely, which Louis had expected, and she’d hugged him with delight, made him feel at home and welcome and instantly loved, which he had not. Her Sunday roast had lived up to all of Harry’s praise, but the lemon sponge had sent Louis spinning and he’d gone back for thirds, sheepishly nodding when she’d asked if he’d like another with his tea. Gemma had matched all of Anne’s loveliness with sarcasm and quick wit, Louis deeply appreciative and finding himself smirking around bites of cake as they conspired against Harry on one (or maybe three) occasions. 

The day had been the exact opposite of what Louis had anticipated. He’d assumed the worst: criticism over his choice of career or the genre he chose to write in, not being polite or funny or downright  _ good _ enough for Harry, watchful eyes as he used the wrong cutlery at the table like he was bloody Jack Dawson. Instead, when they leave the following day with the rest of the cake and a loaf of bread Anne baked herself, promising to visit again soon, Louis feels like he’s been a part of Harry’s family for as long as he’s known him. 

On the way home, the sky fades to orange and then bleeds to black-blue, a glow on the horizon as London waves its fingers at their arrival. The morning they’d left, the sky had blanketed their journey, clean like a fresh start. It had been an omen, Louis thinks now, of their time in Holmes Chapel, sunny and warm, stitched with love. 

x

The weekend before Christmas, they spend the day dressing Louis’ flat up with a bit of cheer. Harry brings over loads of garland to string around Louis’ fireplace that doesn’t work, but is a feature to his living room, and burns balsam scented candles on every surface available. When he learns Louis doesn’t even have a fake tree, he’s offended, insisting they skip out to a local Christmastree farm and find the perfect one to bring back. Even if it has to be small and squat to fit in Louis’ flat, it’s essential. Louis is suspicious, however, of how Harry chooses to define  _ small.  _

“You can’t celebrate your birthday  _ and  _ Christmas without a tree, Louis,” Harry scoffs as they traipse through beaten grass and mud in their wellies. 

Louis makes a face as his boot nearly comes off. “What does me birthday have to do with Christmas trees?” 

“It’s on Christmas Eve!” Harry looks at him like he’s lost the plot and developed an inability to connect point A to point B. 

“Yeah, but it’s not crucial to my birthday experience!” Louis argues. 

Harry gives him another look, the one he wears when he’s mustering every ounce of stubborness in his body, and Louis knows he won’t win. He rolls his eyes instead. 

In the end, they end up with not one, but  _ two _ trees. One is much larger (as Louis assumed, correctly, that it would be) than he would have liked, will take up half his living room and will probably flop its branches onto his desk. Still, he has to admit that it has a nice shape and Harry’s ecstatic about the top branch, straight and ideal for placing a star. The other is a tiny thing, missing half its needles and rather sad, but Harry had refused to leave it. 

“No one else is going to take him home, Lou,” he’d said, eyes pleading.

Louis, still helpless to all of Harry’s whims, had sighed and gestured for him to take it. “Get on with it then.”

And so that tree has found a home in his bedroom, sat on top of his dresser and decorated with silver ribbon and twinkly lights and tiny baubles that Harry’s procured from his never ending box of Christmas bits. There’s even a tiny golden star that sits on its sad nub at the top, lopsided, but hanging on for dear life all the same. 

Later, when they’re sprawled in bed after a much needed  _ break _ (as Louis had put it before he’d swallowed Harry’s cock down), he has to admit that the little tree brings a sort of festive ambiance that had been lacking from his flat as a whole. The colourful string of lights wink at him from his chest of drawers, a whole spectrum reflecting in splashes on his walls and ceiling. For as much fight he’d put up against decorating, it does make him smile. Harry catches him in the act. 

“Have I turned you to the dark side?” he teases, smiling so knowingly that Louis wants to start a new round of protests. 

But he doesn’t. Too content, too comfortable, too stupidly in love with a man who bends him in immeasurable ways and makes him better for it. A man who loves holidays and traditions and full festivities, all the parts of life that seem meaningless until one has someone to share them with. 

“Think so. The tree was a good last minute grab,” Louis admits, barely lifting his chin towards their orphaned mini tree. His fingers continue to drift mindlessly up and down Harry’s arm, his shoulder.

Harry tucks his face into Louis’ chest to hide the smugness. “See.”

“Yes, yes. You know best when it comes to trees,” Louis allows. “I, a simple man born on Christmas Eve, will never doubt your abilities.”

“I’m part elf, you know. I’ve been keeping secrets,” Harry says, leaning his head into his hand, propped on an elbow.

Louis snorts. “Oh? Do you come tinsel?” 

“Louis!” Harry laughs, smacking him across the chest.

Louis grins, his eyes nearly disappearing behind the crinkles at the corners. “Shall I find out?” he asks.

Before Harry can answer, Louis rolls back on top of him, nibbling his way down Harry’s neck where he knows it makes him squeal if he does it just right. And it does, Harry practically screeches into a round of giggles that dissolve to a moan the moment Louis bites down beneath his ear, worrying his skin to a purple mark. It’s a sound Louis will never grow sick of, a sound he wishes he could put down on vinyl and put down in words. He’d filled his room with those sounds fifteen minutes earlier, but finds himself with a craving worse than a sweet tooth. As late afternoon falls to evening, the little tree providing the only light cast around them, Louis fucks Harry slow, a leg thrown over his shoulder drawing him closer, deeper, until Louis loses track of where he himself begins and ends. Harry makes all the sounds Louis loves, tucked into his memories, filling one corner of the room to another like a long poem. 

He might not come tinsel, but Harry, Louis knows, is his birthday  _ and _ Christmas come early the day he met him.

_ wrap yourself in paper and tie it with a bow. you are my greatest gift _

x

Deadlines sneak up on both of them after the holidays have passed, laziness a side effect of having a few uninterrupted weeks off together with no obligations tying them to their respective work spaces. Louis spends most of his time working at Harry’s, his productivity increasing when he’s not allowed to slouch around his flat in the same pair of trackie bottoms. He’s not even distracted by Harry, who disappears into his spare room come dark room after he collects a cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Louis doesn’t see him the rest of the day, but he finds himself busy, absorbed in his final edit, nearly on track to what he owes his publisher and when. In the evenings, they both emerge and meet in the kitchen. Where Harry finds the energy to cook for them both after a long day spent tinkering with chemicals in the dark, Louis hasn’t the slightest, but he’s grateful when he gets a bowl of pasta or roast chicken or some sort of dal that Harry whips up, consumed by conversation that, he realises, he misses all day.

By early summer, they turn in their projects. Harry’s pieces will be displayed at a local gallery for a month’s run, opening night already scheduled. Louis’ already marked the date on his calendar in both his flat and on his phone, lest his lack of time management cause him to miss such an important evening. He’s finished his latest novel that he’d spent the last year working on, the manuscript off to his publisher for proofing and editing. The last thing he does before packaging up his final draft is print the dedication page. 

_ For Harry. I spent every page falling in love with you. _

He smiles to himself and sets it on top of the stack, sliding the whole thing into an envelope already printed with the address. And then it’s done. He’s free for a month or two before the itch comes back, before he’ll be awake in the middle of the night writing down the murky details of a dream that will become his next book. 

They leave London three days later and take the Eurostar to Marseille for a week away to celebrate their anniversary. The trip had been a surprise from Louis after he’d signed the contract for his next novel and received his advance. He’d never splashed out on anyone or anything before, but it felt right to treat Harry to a holiday, time to spend with one another with no distractions. No laundry, no cooking, no dishes. Harry’s face had turned to puzzlement and then shock when he’d opened the accommodation reservation, eyes brimming with tears when he’d looked up at Louis.

“What is it, love?” Louis had asked him, horrified he hated France or traveling or being away from home. 

Harry had lifted both his hands to his face, splotchy with tears. “Really?” he’d choked out. 

“Really,” Louis had promised with relief, matching Harry’s answering, tearful smile. 

And so they find themselves in the south of France, still cool in the mornings, but warm and lazy in the afternoons. They spend most of their time in the little cottage Louis had found in the countryside, reading or writing or dipping into a set of watercolours Harry had brought along. Louis’ still an awful artist, but Harry helps him when he gives it a go, painting a little seaside scene, and doesn’t tease him too much when he gives up, barely completed, and returns instead to his book. Most of the time, they don’t speak, enjoying companionable silence and the sound of birdsong and the rolling hills around them that sails through the windows on a breeze. Harry often sits outside in the sun, peaceful and turning shades of pink that fade to gold over days, and Louis watches him, hoping when he dies, he’ll be returned to this moment. 

On their second to last night, they head into the city centre for dinner. It’s cool as the sun falls, but the ground reflects the heat of the day and warms the wind off the water. They wander through the Old Port of Marseille, pointing out at the boats that dot and bob alongside the docks as the old stonework behind them comes alive with the glow of the evening. Even down here, the din of restaurants and shops echoes, a whisper of their existence.

“When I get my first best seller, I’ll buy you a yacht and we’ll dock it here and come whenever we want,” Louis tells Harry as they walk, hand in hand, in no rush. They don’t have a reservation, not even a place in mind, just waiting to find a place that calls to them.

Harry laughs and squeezes Louis’ fingers in his own. “A yacht? Very posh.”

“You’d look incredible. Sat up on the deck in the sun, shirt hanging open, sunnies on and your hair all perfectly tangled from the sea. It’s kinda infuriating, actually. No one should look that good,” Louis says with a scoff.

Harry snorts, amusement clear across his face. “You’ve really put some thought into that fantasy.”

“It’s not a  _ fantasy _ ,” Louis protests, but if he’s honest, it’s exactly what he’s imagined all week whenever they’ve passed the sea. One of many scenarios in which he whisks Harry away from their lives, waves his hand and makes all their bills, debts, and obligations disappear.

“It  _ is _ a fantasy. No one  _ does _ look that good,” Harry argues. “In reality, my hair would be in my face and eyes, I’d be sunburnt, and I’d probably fall into the water.”

Louis can’t help but laugh; it’s true. “Okay, but see. That feeds into my  _ next _ fantasy in which you’re a French mermaid.”

“Oh my  _ god _ . Shut up.” Harry shoves him away, but it’s half hearted and filled with laughter, Louis barely side stepping.

They end up at a cosy little restaurant at the very end of the port, the terrace overlooking the moorings as the sunset reflects like firelight on the surface of the water. They’re seated just as the last sliver of the sun is visible, a tiny slice of brilliance. Their menus go untouched until the sun disappears beneath the horizon, mesmerised by its descent, and when they look back at each other, their faces are touched with shadows and candlelight, a miniature sun condensed to a flame. Like all the times he’s caught Harry relaxed in the sunshine, Louis wants to remember this moment until the day he can’t. He wants to remember the exact shade of green his eyes take on when there’s barely any light, only visible because of their close proximity and Louis’ familiarity, and he wants to remember the way Harry looks at him, like they could be sat on the surface of the moon, on the edge of the galaxy, and it wouldn’t matter, so long as they are together, so long as Louis is his.

“What are you gonna have?” Louis asks, the words nearly caught in his throat until he clears it. He feels warm everywhere under Harry’s eyes, his palms damp and his t-shirt sticking to his back, even without the daytime heat or a sip of wine.

Harry breaks his gaze and glances down to his menu like it’s a new discovery. “Not sure. I think I’ll probably go for the primavera,” he says, distracted.

“Think someone we passed by had that. It looked good,” Louis adds as he watches Harry a moment longer and then traces his eyes over the entrees. His French is pretty poor, only what he learned in school and mostly faded from memory, but he manages to decipher enough to make a choice. “Think I’m gonna go for one of these prawn dishes.”

“And bread! I’ve not had nearly enough baguette,” Harry adds, clasping his hands together decisively. “And wine. Let’s get a bottle.”

And so they do. They get a bottle of white that’s light and fresh and tastes like summer as soon as it hits Louis’ tongue. It’s nearly finished by the time their food is served, elegantly plated as only the French do, and Harry orders another bottle before Louis can say otherwise. Not that he would protest much, pleasantly wine drunk as he is. His mind and body thrum with it and it’s then that he realises he’s looking at Harry the same way Harry was looking at him earlier, like he’s the only human Louis’ ever known, like he’d rather devour him than the beautiful dinner that’s been served to him. Several times, Louis finds himself staring or watching, his fork held halfway to his mouth and Harry looking back at him inquisitively.

“You’re doing it again, Louis,” Harry teases when he catches him out for a second time.

Louis chuckles. “Can’t help it. Grateful to be here with you.”

“You know I wouldn’t be anywhere else, yeah?” Harry asks him, his smile soft and understanding as he sets his fork down to instead reach for Louis’ hand. “I know I thanked you a hundred times already, but thank you. For bringing me here, for being thoughtful enough to plan it.”

“I’d do anything for you, Harry,” Louis says easily, simply, with a shrug because it’s nothing but the truth. “We had to celebrate our first year together. Do something special.”

Harry’s smile widens, though it’s almost bashful as he glances back down to his dinner. “Can you believe it’s already been a year?”

“Yes and no,” Louis answers. He licks over his lips and takes another sip of wine, considering. “Feels like I’ve known you for years. But it feels like I just met you yesterday too. Suppose that makes no sense.”

“Mm, no,” Harry agrees with a gentle laugh. “But then again, I don’t think love is supposed to.”

Louis smiles then too, his cheeks bringing out the crinkles of happiness by his eyes. He’s the writer between them, the one that has a way with words except when it comes to Harry, and yet, he finds Harry sometimes makes statements that sit in his chest for minutes, hours at a time. No, there is no explaining love, Louis thinks, but that’s the beauty in it, what makes it so unexpected and all consuming and sets one’s world upside down. Louis feels that deep gratitude again, spreading from his chest to his limbs like the light from a star. 

After dinner, they meander back through the streets, wobbling drunkenly in the cobbled lanes and clutching at one another’s hands to stay steady on their feet. All the boutiques and cafes are closed up for the evening, but there are still plenty of people out, some searching for a night cap, others leaving restaurants like they are. They laugh nearly the entire walk back, talking about their friends, missing their karaoke and poker nights, fresh with new energy to carry them home when they leave. Close to an hour has passed by the time they stumble to the front door and Louis manages to unlock it, dropping the keys several times as Harry drapes himself over his back and mouths at the side of his neck. 

They open another bottle of wine to pass between them and find themselves on the balcony, enjoying the last of the evening under the few bright stars that cut through the light pollution of Marseille. Louis sits on the ground, his back against the wall and his head tilted to the sky, rolling around a mouthful of wine. He feels small whenever he looks at the sky, thinks about the universe as it exists and his place in it. He finds himself at peace anyway, one hand wrapped around the bottle and the other in Harry’s. Eventually, the wine goes forgotten. Louis tugs Harry’s hand, slides his fingers to his wrist to pull him into his lap. 

On other drunken evenings they’ve spent together, it’s a rush to get their clothes off as fast as possible, and based on their dinner, Louis would’ve bet good money tonight would have been the same. Instead, they kiss for a long time, licking the wine and the taste of bread and butter and the sea off one another’s tongues. Louis’ hands find their way into Harry’s hair, long with neglect over the weeks he’d spent working on his project, and he pulls just hard enough for Harry to sigh into his mouth, the way Louis loves, the way Harry  _ knows _ Louis loves. He plays Harry like a well loved instrument, puts his hands under his shirt and lets his fingertips roam the knobs of his spine, find the dimples in his back. On a cottage balcony in Marseille, Louis doesn’t care if he’s big or small or if he has meaning to the world they live in. He thinks of nothing else but Harry.

_ love might not make sense, but you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense to me _

x

Harry sighs loudly for the third time, sorting through a pile of paperwork. Louis stops typing and looks up at him from his makeshift workspace on the sofa. 

“What is it?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head, the papers shuffling again. “Nothing.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “It’s obviously something. You’ve fluffed that pile of junk around fifteen times now.”

“Am I disturbing you?” Harry asks. Louis thinks he’s being a sarcastic dick, but when he looks over, Harry actually looks concerned about it. 

Louis softens. “No, not at all. Just… what’s got you bothered, love?”

“My electricity bill keeps going up. Every month it’s higher than the last.” Harry frowns down at it as though it may change if he stares long enough. “I know it’s been warm and the fan’s on nonstop, but…” he trails and sighs again.

Louis hums his acknowledgement and taps his fingers over the laptop keys without actually typing anything. There’s a thought rolling around that’s found a home in the back of his mind over the last few weeks and he just hasn’t found the proper time to bring it up. He’s convinced himself he’s  _ not _ afraid of Harry’s answer, but as he feels heat creep up the back of his neck, he reconsiders. 

“Well,” Louis says and then stops. The rest of his sentence dies in his throat and he swallows around a ball as he tries to force the words out.

Harry raises an eyebrow at him when he doesn’t continue, prompting him. “Well?”

“What if you - we - only had one bill to pay?” Louis asks, slowly closing his laptop. 

Harry’s eyebrows immediately furrow, confused. “What do you mean?”

“What if we split it? The bill,” Louis says, trying to clarify. He kind of hopes Harry just  _ gets it _ , his nerves playing havoc with his pulse, but he reaches deep for his confidence. “Because we only have one flat. Like, we move in together.”

Harry’s lips part on a sudden inhale. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to answer now. Just. You know. It’s an option to think about.” Louis shrugs. 

Harry doesn’t say anything for a solid thirty seconds. Louis’ heart beats fast and hard, rushing in his ears and thundering so loudly he almost misses Harry’s next words. “Are we keeping your flat or mine?”

“What?” Louis breathes. He blinks a few times, snaps himself back to the present. 

“Would we keep my flat or yours?” Harry repeats. 

Louis shakes his head. “Wait. Back up. Is that a yes then?”

“Of course it’s a yes!” Harry laughs. His bills scatter across the sofa as he launches himself at Louis, a leg flung across his lap.

Louis finds himself laughing too, his heart light with Harry’s answer and the anxiety of asking already far away. He relaxes as their lips meet, interrupted by the smiles they both wear and the way their teeth touch. Louis thumbs at the dimple in Harry’s cheek and kisses the opposite one at the same time, grin pressed to his face. 

“Sure you can put up with me all the time?” Harry asks as he sits back on Louis’ thighs, hands resting on his shoulders. 

Louis reaches for the electric bill and takes a peek at the total. “Christ, maybe I ought to rethink this,” he jokes. 

“Louis!” Harry laughs and gives him a playful shove back into the sofa cushions. 

x

At the end of the summer, Harry moves into Louis’ flat. They’d spent several hours one evening over pizza debating keeping one flat over the other, Louis stubbornly in the corner of  _ his _ flat even as Harry made a well-organised list of pros and cons for each. In the end, Louis’ flat won out. It may have been smaller, but the utilities were cheaper and Louis found himself unable to part with the windows in front of his desk. Those same windows were what had convinced Harry in the end, in love with the light that spills through and makes the old hardwoods gleam, turns the whole space warm and inviting during golden hour. 

Louis’ whole body is sore and tight by the time they get the last of the boxes up the stairs. When he’d first spotted the pile, Louis had scoffed and insisted they’d be done in a few short hours. But the boxes had been heavy and every time Louis had brought one downstairs, three more seemed to appear out of nowhere. Now, he regrets his severe underestimation, slumping onto his sofa despite smelling like sweat and cardboard. 

“There were at least seven boxes labelled ‘books,’ Harry,” Louis says through a groan. “That’s more books than I own and I’m the bloody writer.”

Harry shrugs. He takes a seat on one of said book boxes, swigging water. “I like books.”

“I never saw seven boxes of books worth in your flat, baby,” Louis points out. 

Harry considers this, stretching one long leg out to nudge Louis’ knee with his foot. “I never unpacked most of them. They were all in the back of my wardrobe.”

“We’re gonna have to buy another bookshelf,” Louis muses as he looks at the one beside his desk, filled to bursting. “Think our relationship can survive building one from Ikea?”

“Bit late to worry about that now, innit?” Harry chuckles. 

They don’t bother with any unpacking that night, Louis’ flat filled with the essentials and nothing inside the boxes of immediate importance. Instead, they order in Chinese and spread it out on the floor picnic style, chatting about what will go where, what adjustments they’ll need to make for Harry’s stuff to fit. Louis’ had time to think about all of this, to get used to the idea of sharing all his space with Harry, but as he sits there among the boxes, it suddenly strikes him that Harry lives here now. It doesn’t scare or intimidate him, just brings a smile to his face that they share more than just the flat, but everything within it too. As Louis imagines Harry’s books mixing with his, cameras stashed away on shelves and drawers filled with photo paper and film, he realises that they share a whole life together.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks him when he’s been quiet for a few passing minutes.

Louis takes a bite out of his chow mein, mumbling around a mouthful. “Where we’re going to put all your shit.” He grins to prove he’s joking, dodging out of the way of the fortune cookie Harry throws at him.

“You have more shit than I do and it’s not even  _ organised _ ,” Harry says, eyes narrowed, but Louis can tell he’s fighting a smile. “It’s everywhere!”

“Gonna clean it up for me?” Louis tries, but another cookie sails by his head in answer. He lets a few beats of silence go by before he decides to answer honestly. “Was thinking about us. Living in this flat together. We’re really like…” he trails off and instead clasps his fingers together, intertwined. “Building a life together, I reckon.”

Louis knows Harry’s bottom lip would be trembling if he didn’t have it tucked between his teeth. When he speaks, his voice wavers, thick with emotion. “A life together.” 

The days that follow are spent unpacking. Harry helps Louis sort his belongings and get rid of anything he hasn’t used or touched the entire time he’s lived in his flat. It makes space for Harry’s things and then some, little gaps appearing that Harry excitedly chatters about filling with plants. As they work, the flat starts to feel less like Louis, but it doesn’t feel like Harry either. Just as Louis had imagined sitting among towers of boxes, once the cardboard has been folded down and recycled, they’re left with a home that feels distinctly  _ them _ . The kitchen is still sparse, but Harry’s stand mixer now has a home on the worktop along with several cookbooks. Louis spots the one dedicated to bread and is filled with a rush of nostalgia for their first date, an evening that feels like decades and hours ago just the same. Harry’s changed the duvet on their bed, white and airy and entirely too fussy for Louis’ liking, but both sides now have a bedside table that holds all their individual possessions. In the living room, Louis’ desk is still a nightmare of drafts and notes and journals and his dead laptop, but the bookshelves have been rejigged by colour and title. It’s all the little juxtapositions, the differences between them, that live in harmony in this flat.

Louis sits at his desk now, reclined in his chair with a knee pulled to his chest. His journal sits open against his thigh as he stares outside and watches the dogwoods sway in the wind, lost in thought about this life he’s fallen into and never imagined for himself even a year ago. Harry pulls him from his daydream when he leans over his shoulder to kiss his jaw, handing off a mug of steaming tea, made just the way Louis likes. It’s so thoughtful and kind, but Louis knows Harry doesn’t think about these things, just  _ does _ . He does them because he loves Louis, loves him despite his shit everywhere that makes their ( _ their _ ) flat messier than Harry would like, despite Louis’ odd hours he keeps now that he’s onto his next novel. 

Louis takes a careful sip of his tea, the steam rising to his face, and writes.

_ your heart has always been my home _

x

Louis spends most of autumn hunkered down at his desk as he plows through three quarters of his novel with inspiration and motivation that strikes him out of nowhere. He stays up through the night and drags himself to the sofa at dawn, sleeping away the morning and resuming in the afternoon after Harry’s made him two coffees and a plate of French toast. As these things go, a week later he finds he can’t even be arsed to turn his laptop on, let alone spend a moment’s time in front of it typing a single sentence. He grows out his scruff and mopes with terrible writer’s block that nags like a migraine, mocking him every time he sits down to even outline the ending to his book.

Like everything else in his life, it’s Harry who comes to his rescue. There’s a blow out fight that accompanies said rescue, but in the end, Harry wins, insisting Louis get dressed and join him as he bolts around the city, collecting new photos to work with. The fresh air gets Louis’ head on straight, crisp with the impending promise of winter, and he sees parts of the city he knows by heart in a new light as he watches Harry line up shot after shot. Ducking into a cafe for a latte and a croissant to warm up from the chill becomes Louis’ favourite part of these days. Soon enough, as he follows Harry from one end of London to the other, he finds himself missing the keys of his laptop, missing agonising over every word and re-reading paragraphs until he gets the cadence just right. By December, he’s back to his novel, managing to crank out a chapter that’s not quite perfect, but more than he’s written all autumn long.

In December, weeks before Christmas and his 30th birthday, Louis drags Zayn with him to finish his shopping. It’s the earliest he’s ever been ( _ nearly _ ) done and it’s all because of Harry and his carefully chosen gifts that he’d helped Louis order online. In fact, the only person Louis’ yet to buy for  _ is _ Harry. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what to get, just trusts that when he sees it, he’ll know. If there’s one thing Louis’ learned in the last year, it’s that fate tends to drive when it comes to Harry.

“Where are we going?” Zayn asks when they’ve started down the same street again. They’ve yet to duck into any shops, Louis plodding along with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Dunno yet. Just kind of waiting for something to call to me,” Louis answers him, voice light with distraction.

Zayn rolls his eyes and drops his head back. “You have to actually go into one of the shops to see a gift he might like, Lou.”

But Louis doesn’t hear him. He’s finally stopped in front of a shop, all windows and strategically positioned lights to make all of its contents glitter with appeal. There’s loads of diamonds and other precious stones, but Louis has his eye on one of the bands, white gold and detailed with flora. Immediately, Louis knows it’s what he wants, what he’d probably always been searching for and hadn’t examined enough in his thoughts to know it.

“Louis,” Zayn breathes when he follows his line of sight. “Really? You’re sure?”

Once more, Louis doesn’t answer, his feet moving of their own accord to the door as the bell tinkers pleasantly when he steps inside. There’s only one other customer, but a friendly looking woman smiles at them and invites them in for a closer look. Even as she shows them several options, Louis’ attention drifts to the same band over and over again. It is, like he’d said, calling to him, and as he holds it in the palm of his hand, rotates it to see the delicate engraving all the way around, Louis can already picture it on Harry’s ring finger, the only one he’s ever kept bare.

“This is the one,” Louis says, nodding firmly. He leaves no room for question, clear to the sales woman as she clears away the other options she’d presented and packages the ring up in a neat velvet box.

Louis spends nearly two months of earnings on the ring, but he doesn’t flinch once. The purchase sets him on fire with anticipation and as soon as they’re out of the store, he throws away both the bag and the receipt, tucking the box into his pocket instead.

“You sure you don’t want to keep that?” Zayn asks him, staring down into the bin after the receipt.

Louis shakes his head. “Nah, I’m never gonna need it.”

x

But the holidays are busy with family and friends, rushing from one end of the city to the other to attend Christmas parties and pick up last minute bits and bobs. The Christmas holiday itself is split between the usual cheer and Louis’ birthday, friends and family flocking to their tiny flat one evening to hide in the dark and give Louis the fright of his life. Despite telling Harry not to, under  _ any _ circumstance, throw him a surprise party or a party at all, he finds himself pleasantly content to be surrounded by loved ones, buzzed with some sort of mixed punch Harry had thrown together in an enormous bowl. 

The only thing that doesn’t happen as the year winds to a close is their engagement. Instead, he gifts Harry a vintage Polaroid camera he’d found in a thrift shop one day, hidden on a shelf he’d passed while looking for some sort of unique jumper to add to Harry’s collection. Harry loves it, of course, overjoyed as he abandons the rest of his gifts to immediately load the camera with the equally aged film it came with. All the while, the little ring box had pressed against Louis’ thigh, a constant reminder that it was there, ready to go, anytime he chose. He has every intention of being engaged by the time the New Year rolls around, but the moment never feels quite right. It has to be  _ right _ , Louis thinks, refusing to accept anything else.

Before Louis knows it, though, it’s early summer again, May turning to June as the trees grow lush and full with new leaves and London is blessed with a bout of good weather that has everyone out in droves. They’re sat along the Thames just like the rest of London, it seems, one of hundreds as they enjoy a sandwich and sip craft lemonade Harry had convinced him to try. It’s hot, the way it always feels when the temperature jumps dramatically for the first time, and Louis can feel the back of his neck turning pink. When he glances in Harry’s direction, he has the same flush of heat in his cheeks and across his forehead. 

Louis thinks about the ring, still snug in the pocket of his jeans. He hasn’t left the house without it since Christmas and he’s surprised he hasn’t gone mad yet, anxiety making itself a home in his chest whenever he thinks about potentially losing it. It’s all worth it, though, for when the  _ right _ moment presents itself, he’ll be ready. He’ll never find himself unprepared. And yet, it’s been six months and the right moment has never shown up, waved its hand in his face and announced its presence. Perhaps, Louis thinks now, he hasn’t necessarily been searching for the right moment, but the  _ perfect _ moment, one that doesn’t exist for life is filled with surprises and difficulties, joys and heartaches. All Louis knows about perfection is the man sitting beside him, the closest thing to it that spins circles in Louis’ life. Harry’s hair has grown out over the last few weeks and he’s a few days unshaven. He’s got a smudge of mustard on the corner of his mouth and Louis knows he’ll hate him forever for asking  _ now _ , but that he won’t regret a single moment of it anyway.

“Harry,” Louis says, a vie for his attention.

Harry swipes at his lips with the back of his hand, as if he can sense the exact thoughts passing rapid fire through Louis’ mind. “Yeah, babe?”

Louis doesn’t answer him. Instead, he sets his sandwich aside and looks out over the Thames, at the clear sky wispy with clouds that remind him of their first trip to Cheshire. He fishes around in his pocket for a moment, fear pounding in his ears that he’ll come up empty handed until his fingers close around the box.

“I’ve had this thing for too long,” Louis chuckles as he pushes himself off the bench. He bends down in front of Harry and fiddles with the box to snap the lid open, the ring sparkling new like the day he got it, hugged by velvet.

He doesn’t get much farther than that. Harry pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and covers his face with his hands, mumbling behind them. “Oh my god, oh my god. Louis.”

“Harry,” Louis repeats. He’s surprised to find his voice wavers, feels like molasses in his throat, overcome with emotion and nerves. “I knew I wanted you in me life the first time I saw you, but I think some part of me knew you were the love of me life the night I met you. I don’t know what my life looks like anymore without you in it and I hope to never find out. Be with me? Always? Be my husband.”

All Harry manages to do is nod rapidly, peeking through his fingers. His lips part when he takes a gasp of air and he folds forward into Louis, wrapping his arms so tightly around his neck that Louis can hardly swallow under the pressure against his throat. 

“Yes, yes. Of course, Lou. Of course, yes,” Harry whispers. He sits back again and takes Louis’ face in his hands, draws him into a kiss that tastes so unequivocally like Harry it makes Louis lightheaded. 

Behind them, Louis can hear the echo of shouting, clapping, cheering, and only when they break apart, does he realise it’s for them. They’ve garnered an audience of onlookers and Louis laughs bashfully, rocking down onto both his knees before standing again. “Not quite what I imagined, all these strangers.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says quickly, shaking his head as his eyes catch on the ring, noticing it for the first time. “Put it on me? Please.”

Louis’ happy to do just that, his hands shaking with adrenaline. He slips the ring from the box and onto Harry’s naked ring finger, adding it to his collection, though Louis knows this will be one he never takes off. It fits like it was made for him and brings a sort of maturity to Harry’s hand, his other rings more ornate and extravagant while the band sits understated and elegant on his finger. Louis curls their hands together and rubs his thumb over the band, lifting to kiss it.

No, Louis decides, there is no right or perfect moment - to ask one to move in, to propose, to have challenging and exciting conversations. There is no purpose in pursuing perfection for, Louis reasons, it does not change the outcome. As he sits in the sun with Harry’s left hand in his right, a day cut from storybooks, he knows there was no other answer Harry would have given him. It was always going to be yes.

_ for your heart is mine and mine is yours _

x

They marry in Cheshire the following autumn, early in the season and uncharacteristically warm, on a day that reminds Louis of hundreds of days they’ve spent together. The sky is crisp in the morning and the clouds look sharp at the edges as they roll past on a gentle breeze that blows the first leaves off the trees and across the lawn. They’d chosen a modest, private manor to hold their ceremony and reception, their guest list paired back to just family and close friends, the ones they’ve always held near and dear. Louis hadn’t been overly involved in the details, mostly offering his opinion when it came to the big things - food, cake, where he wanted to spend a week or two honeymooning, filling their days with more food, sun, and sex. But when the day arrives, he finds himself emotional at every turn, the atmosphere Harry had created inviting and elegant in a way that feels both special and entirely like them. Louis barely makes it through his vows, his voice rattling with emotion, and Harry completely dissolves, having to stop several times to collect himself. Louis doesn’t feel so bad; when they both say  _ I do _ , there isn’t a dry eye before them.

The reception feels like an evening from a scene Louis could have only created in his novels. Louis had never really daydreamed a wedding for himself, but he knows if he had, it would’ve been a carbon copy of this night. The back lawn of the manor is lit with strings of lightbulbs and set with rustic tables, the patio reserved for the live band and the dancefloor. All of them, Louis included, are treated to Harry’s terrible dancing, but Louis’ not far behind him. The only time they manage to find the tempo of the music is during slow songs, when they can lean into one another and sway in a meandering circle, absorbed by one another and orbiting like two planets. In those moments, Louis feels a thousand miles away from their guests, like he and Harry are the only two people that exist within this bubble between them. In a way, Louis supposes they are. 

The following day, they leave in the afternoon and head straight to Heathrow, jetting off to Thailand, largely paid for by Louis’ last novel. It’s a well deserved break for both of them, but Harry can’t resist taking photos and Louis can’t resist writing in his journal during quiet moments. His pages, once reserved for character ideas or potential plots, have become a time capsule of his relationship with Harry. He spends one afternoon poolside flipping from the beginning to the end, reading entire entries from the early days to random lines scribbled in the middle of the night, Harry hot on his mind any hour of the day. It fills him with nostalgia and brings his full attention to the love that runs deep in his bones, in every cell and chemical that make him who he is.

When the palms shuffle around him with a draft of air, the pages of his journal flip and Louis presses them down with his left hand, his wedding band catching the sunlight. It momentarily makes him squint against the glare, but he spends the following five, ten minutes looking at his hand, golden brown with too much sun and adorned by the band Harry had chosen for him. Days after their wedding, Louis hadn’t felt any different as a married man than he had as a boyfriend, but now is the first time it hits him that he is Harry’s husband. That Harry is  _ his _ husband. When he looks up, it’s against the afternoon sun, low in the sky and casting long shadows across the pool. He smiles to himself, private.

_ to have and to hold. to love and to cherish. that is my promise to you _

x

Louis’ suffering through one last paragraph for the evening when he hears a loud clatter in the direction of the kitchen and a loud curse courtesy of Harry. He looks over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised, and though he knows he should finish his final thought, it sounds like Harry needs him more than his novel does. 

“Everything alright, love?” Louis asks, cautious, as he steps through to the kitchen. 

Harry turns his glare on him, but it quickly dissipates when he realises Louis is not the enemy, but the pile of pots in front of him. “There’s no room for anything! Every time I open a fucking cupboard, everything just… spills out,” he hisses, frustrated.

“Well, maybe we need to get rid of some stuff,” Louis suggests. He bends down to help sort the pile of fallen pots and pans, stacking them up and finding they don’t fit at all.

Harry sighs. “We need a bigger place.”

Louis scoffs, refusing to believe they’ve grown out of his flat so soon. They’ve been putting away a little extra money each month for the last three years and logically, Louis knows they haven’t been saving for nothing. He knows Harry dreams of a house of their own, a  _ real _ place that’s not a rental, but a home they can paint and bang holes in the walls to decorate with art, framed photos. It’s just that Louis’ attached to this flat. He’s lived here most of his adult life. It’s the flat he lived in when he finished his first book, when he first met Harry. It’s the first place he and Harry have ever  _ shared _ .

“Lou,” Harry says. He reaches out to stop Louis when he starts to push and jam everything back into the cupboard. “You know it’s not going to fit.”

“It fit before, didn’t it?” Louis says stubbornly. But a moment later, his shoulders sag, defeated, and he lets the pots slide back to the floor in a heap. “We need a bigger place.”

Harry can’t help the small smile that starts at the corners of his lips and grows to a full grin. “A house?”

“A house,” Louis agrees. Harry’s enthusiasm is infectious and though the idea of moving sets Louis’ nerves on edge and flares distant panic, he can’t help but smile too.

So they buy a house. It’s small, needs loads of work, and is closer to Brighton and the sea than it is London, but Harry had fallen in love with it the moment they stepped through the door and Louis hadn’t had the heart to say no. Louis leaves a piece of himself behind the day they move out of the flat, but when they arrive with all their belongings packed into a moving van, smell the salt in the air and see the coast just miles away, their new home patches itself right into that vacancy. They spend the afternoon moving each box into the front hallway, stacking what they can to make a tiny path through to the rest of the house.

“I’m sorry I ever complained about moving you into me flat,” Louis laughs. He’s sweaty and exhausted, all his muscles aching, from his legs to his back to his shoulders.

Harry’s not faring much better, his hair curling at the base of his neck with sweat and his face splotchy with effort as he leans against a stack of boxes. “But this is so much better! This is our  _ house _ . Our home.”

“You’re my home,” Louis tells him, automatic as breathing. He’s grateful for a roof over their head, but Louis knows he’d follow Harry to the ends of the earth, house or no house, and still feel at home.

Like the night Harry moved into his flat, they don’t bother unpacking much that evening. Harry does, however, go through just about every box until he comes across a bottle of champagne. It had been living under the sink in their old flat, reserved for a special occasion, and Louis thinks there’s no better moment to celebrate. Harry pops the cork and it springs to the ceiling, leaving a tiny dent in the plaster that neither of them are cross about as they kiss over the fizzing bottle. They take it to the garden and sit in the overgrown grass, passing it back and forth as they look out at the little patch of land that’s theirs, envision a vegetable garden someday, maybe a child or two running back and forth and collecting clovers. It’s a life that, until Harry, Louis had never wanted for himself and yet, now, can’t imagine anything else.

Out here, far from the city, the sky is much darker and the horizon pitch black with the sea when night falls. The bottle of champagne has long since gone dry and Louis lays back in the grass, pleasantly drunk as he listens to the crickets chirr and Harry breathe beside him. It feels strange not to hear traffic or sirens or any of the city sounds he’s used to, to know they’ll get up eventually and walk inside their house, no stairs, no lifts, no neighbours above or below them. Their entire lives are packed up in cardboard boxes, each belonging ready to find a new home on a shelf or window sill, to bring a dusty, unloved home to life.

When Louis looks over at Harry, his eyes are closed, face turned up to the cool evening air, damp with the sea breeze. He looks entirely at peace, his breathing slow and relaxed, and he cracks an eye open when he feels Louis’ eyes on him. He doesn’t ask what Louis’ looking at, how long he’s been staring at him, just smiles and closes his eyes again, accustomed to Louis staring at him often. Louis rolls closer to him and pillows his head on his ribs, just below his heart, feels the beat against his ear as he listens to one beat, one cricket chirp, one beat, one chirp.

_ you and i, we’ve come so far _

x

The house becomes home for a year, then two years, then five. They paint the kitchen cupboards and repair the flooring with a few new boards and fresh stain. Eventually they tackle one of the bathrooms, ripping out tile and the bathtub and test their marriage all the while, entirely unprepared to navigate a renovation on their own. A year later, Louis finds Harry painting the tiny spare bedroom a pastel yellow that eminates joy and makes Louis feel warm from the inside out. It’s that room that they sit in the centre, filling out page after page of paperwork as they perfect their adoption application and send it off on a hope and prayer. Louis’ not a religious man and neither is Harry, but Louis swears he becomes one, the desire and dream so alive in both of them that he begs any energy or higher being in the world to be good to them.

It takes a long time, but one cold, blustery day, the sky heavy and grey with snow, they bring home Marin, two years old and unsure of everything around her, blue eyes that match Louis’ blown wide as she teeters around their home. Marin’s arrival outshines any other moment in either of their lives, but it’s followed by hours, days, weeks of patience as they learn their girl and she learns them. Louis has always known how kind and loving and compassionate Harry is and how suited he is to fatherhood, but he sees him in a new light too. The love he has for him as his husband deepens and matures in ways Louis never thought possible as they navigate parenting together. Sometimes he’s fortunate enough to catch Harry sitting with her, reading or flipping through a picture book, so tender and benevolent that Louis feels his love for them both might cause him to combust. Most surprising, though, is the love he has for Marin and Marin alone, a love that knows no bounds and consumes Louis on a daily basis. But then again, Louis thinks, maybe it’s not surprising at all. 

In the middle of the night, a few months later, Marin’s tiny feet pad down the hallway to their bedroom, so light Louis is quick to assume it’s just the house settling. The bed dips with her weight, though, and she crawls up between himself and Harry without a word and promptly falls back to sleep, her cheek pillowed against one little hand. It’s the first time she’s left her bedroom or sought them out on her own and Louis’ heart squeezes in his chest, tight with love and protectiveness. Harry stirs a moment later and they share a private smile over the top of her curly head, half asleep.

“We’re doing it,” Harry whispers to him, a stripe of moonlight cast across his face. “We’re parents.”

And so they are. Marin turns three, then five, and the next time Louis blinks, he’s sat at the kitchen table, old and marred with use, trying to decipher university applications and figure out their savings and finances. As he stares out to the garden, watches Harry pull weeds as Marin sits beside him and reads, nearly a woman grown, Louis doesn’t know where the time has gone. It feels like just yesterday they’d brought her home, a skittish little thing, and if he didn’t have over a decade of memories, Louis would swear he’s time traveled. But he does have them, memories. He remembers enrolling her in school and going to her first football game, helping with her maths and telling off the first lad that ever showed up on their doorstep, much to Marin’s dismay. He remembers his birthdays that transitioned to late nights, setting up gifts from Father Christmas, and mending her first broken heart with cups of tea and advice he didn’t feel he had any business giving. 

Through it all, all the madness that comes with raising a child that he never could have anticipated, in the moments he felt unprepared and unqualified and at times, frustrated, Harry had been right next to him. Where Louis had been short tempered and quick to react, Harry was gentle and patient, giving guidance and direction, but always allowing Marin to make her own decisions. And in the moments Harry hadn’t been able to stand to see Marin ill or hurting or broken, Louis sought his courage and strength and resiliency for all three of them. It had always been a team effort, something they’d stepped into together. Now, they approach a new chapter of their lives, one where Marin will lean on them less, need them less, and not always seek them out as parents, but as her friends. 

Louis takes a break from the paperwork and steps out onto the back porch, leaning his forearms on the railing as he watches his husband and daughter sit in harmony. He’s not sure if he’s ready to let her go, but like many stages in his life, he supposes there is never a time when one is absolutely ready, no doubts, no fears. It doesn’t make the idea of crossing into unknown territory as parents any easier, but when Harry looks up at him from the garden, lifting a hand, dirty with soil, to block the sun from his eyes, he knows they’ll be okay. He can see it in Harry’s smile and the relaxed set of his shoulders and the lines near his mouth and eyes that grow deeper with each passing year. He can see it in the greys that flock at his temples and the way he laughs when he gloats about catching Louis watching, always watching. Louis knows they’ll be okay, that  _ he’ll _ be okay, so long as they are together, so long as he’s by his side, for Harry has been

_ everything  _


End file.
